From porters at the door in the courtyard to the clerks in the reception desk, the liftman and the bell-boys, there was no man whose uniform did not disguise a detective.
Elaborate precautions had been taken to ensure the privacy of incoming and outgoing telephone calls. No general headquarters ever had been more closely guarded. Armageddon was being waged, but few appreciated the fact. In the past Wellington had crushed Bonaparte’s ambition to control Europe, but the great Corsican fought at Waterloo with a blunted sword. Foch and his powerful allies had thrown back Marshal von Hindenburg and the finest military machine in history since the retreat from Moscow broke the Grand Army of Napoleon. But now Nayland Smith, backed by the govern ment of the United States, fought, not for the salvage of the Constitution, not for the peace of the country, but for the future of the world. And the opposing forces were commanded by a mad genius. . . .
Dressed in an old tweed suit, pipe clenched between his teeth, he paced up and down the sitting-room. His powers were all that a field-marshal could have demanded. His chief of staff, Mark Hepburn, was one such as he would have selected. But. . . .
Someone had unlocked the door of the apartment.
Fey appeared in the vestibule as if by magic, his right hand in his coat pocket. Nayland Smith stepped smartly to the left, taking up a position from which he could see the entrance. A tall, pale, bearded man came in, wearing a caped coat and a wide-brimmed black hat. . . .
“Hepburn!” cried Smith, and hurried forward to meet him. “Thank heavens you’re back safe. What news?”
Captain Mark Hepburn, U.S.M.C., a parody of his normal self, smiled wryly. His pallor, his greying temples, were artificial, but the beard and moustache were carefully tended natural products, although at the moment chemically improved. The character he was assuming was one which he might be called upon to maintain for a considerable time, in accordance with plan.
“Just left the Bragg reception at the Dumas apartment,” he said, removing his glasses and staring rather haggardly at Nayland Smith. “There isn’t much to report except that Bragg’s confidential secretary, Salvaletti, is pretty obviously the link with Fu Manchu.”
“Then Bragg is doubly covered,” said Nayland Smith grimly. “Lola Dumas is almost certainly one of Dr. Fu Manchu’s agents.”
“Yes.” Mark Hepburn dropped wearily into an armchair. “But there’s some friction in that quarter. A woman was announced just before I left, and Bragg went out to interview her. I managed to pick up some scraps of the conversation between Salvaletti and Bragg, but from the way Lola Dumas watched Bragg, I gathered that their relations were becoming strained.”
“Describe Salvaletti,” said Nayland Smith succinctly.
Mark Hepburn half closed his eyes. Smith watched him. There was something odd in Hepburn’s manner.
“Above medium height, pale, stooping. Light-blue eyes, dark, lank hair, a soft voice and a sickly smile.”
“Seen him before?”
“Never! He’s a new one on me.”
“Probably indigenous to the American underworld,” Smith murmured; “therefore I should not know him. You are sure it was a woman who was announced?”
“Positive. Harvey Bragg brought her into the room and displayed her to the company as his new secretary. It’s about this woman I want to talk to you. I want your advice. I don’t know what to do. It was Mrs. Adair. . . . who escaped, thanks to my negligence, from the Tower of the Holy Thorn. . . .”
Chapter 17
THE ABBOT’S MOVE
In the gothic dome where most of the life of the Memory Man was passed, lights were extinguished. A red spark marking the tip of a burning Egyptian cigarette glowed in the darkness.
There was a short silence, and then:
“Report,” directed the familiar, hated voice, “from Numbers covering Nayland Smith.”
“Three have been received since I relayed. Shall I repeat them in detail or summarize their contents?”
“Summarize.”
“There is no certain evidence that he has left his base during the last twelve hours. A report from Number 44 suggests that he may have visited the police mortuary. This report is unconfirmed. Two Numbers and eight operatives, with two Z-cars, covering Centre Street. Federal Agent Hepburn not reporting to have moved out from the Regal Tower. This is a summary of the three reports.”
Darkness still prevailed.
“The latest report regarding Abbot Donegal.”
“Received thirty minutes after that last relayed. A man answering to the abbot’s description reported as hiring a car at Elmira. Believed to have arrived there from the West by American Airlines. Posing as Englishman. Wears single eyeglass and carries golfing kit. . . .”
In the tower study, so oddly corresponding in point of elevation with Nayland Smith’s headquarters, but which bore an atmosphere of stale incense whereas the apartment high above the Regal-Athenian Hotel was laden with fumes of broad-cut smoking mixture, Dr. Fu Manchu sat behind the lacquer table. There was no one else in the room.
The life of one who aspires to empire—though thousands may await his commands—is a wan and lonely life. Solitude is the mother of inspiration. The Chinaman, these reports from the Memory Man received, sat in his high, carven chair, eyes closed. He was speaking as though to one standing near him. On the little polished switchboard two spots of light glowed; green, and amber.
“Dispatch a party in a Z-car,” he directed, his voice unemotional but the gutturals very marked. “Explore all farms, roadhouses and hotels along the route which I have indicated. Abbot Donegal is reported as travelling incognito. He may be posing as an English tourist. If found, he is not to be molested, but he must be detained. Instruct the Number in charge to send in reports from point to point. This is a personal order from the President.”
A slender yellow hand with long, pointed nails reached out. The two lights disappeared. Dr. Fu Manchu opened his eyes:
their greeness was dimmed. He raised the lid of a silver box which stood upon the table and from it took a small, exquisitely made opium-smoking outfit. He lighted the tiny lamp and inserted a gold bodkin into a container holding the black gum which is bom of the white poppy. He had not slept for forty-eight hours. . . .
Almost at the same moment, in a room at the top of the Regal Tower, Mark Hepbum spoke on the telephone. He had had all calls put through to his own room in order that Nayland Smith might not be disturbed; for, at last, Smith was sleeping.
“This Englishman who left Airlines at Elmira,” he said in his dry, monotonous voice, “sounds to me like the man we’re looking for. The fact that he wears plus fours and a monocle doesn’t count, nor the fact that he is travelling with a golf bag. I have learned that Abbot Donegal used a single eye-glass before he took to spectacles. He could probably get along with it quite well except for reading. Also, he’s a golfer. The English accent means nothing. Abbot Donegal is a trained orator. Check up on all roadhouses and hotels along possible routes which he might follow if, as you suspect, he left by road from Elmira. Take a radio car so we keep track of you. Report from point to point. If he is definitely identified take no action until you have my instructions. We have contrived to silence the newspapers about his disappearance. But he is probably coming to New York to take Prescott’s place at Carnegie Hall—ifPrescott fails to arrive. This would ruin our plans. . . . All right—good-bye.”
He hung up the receiver.
In the vestibule of a small country hotel two men sat over their coffee before a crackling log fire. Outside, a storm raged. The howling of the wind could be heard in the chimney, and whenever the main door was opened a veil of sleet might be seen in the light shining out from inside. It was a wild night.